


i pretend you're mine all the damn time

by thelilacfield



Series: there is no world where i am not yours [23]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:22:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28047639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilacfield/pseuds/thelilacfield
Summary: Vision is a surprise breath of fresh air to the life she expected to have after rehab. He’s sweet, sweeter than most people she’s met in her life under the spotlight. He doesn’t make her feel like she has to perform for him, though she’s playing at being his girlfriend. On their dates, meant to draw the paparazzi to them and spark speculation about their relationship, he talks to her like she’s a person, not just the famous actress who could’ve had everything but threw it away in wine glasses and white powder.
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Series: there is no world where i am not yours [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859725
Comments: 7
Kudos: 65





	i pretend you're mine all the damn time

**A/N:** AU-dvent day 13! The Hollywood fake-dating AU of my dreams!

I'm on Tumblr and Twitter **@mximoffromanoff** if anybody wants to chat about all things scarletvision! Enjoy, and please let me know with a comment if you do :)

**warning: wanda is a recovering alcoholic and drug addict who relapses in one scene in this au. those topics are discussed in dialogue and referenced in introspection, along with references to coerced nudity and suicidal thoughts. please be cautious if you think you could be triggered by any of these topics**

* * *

_**BREAKING: PIETRO MAXIMOFF HOSPITALISED AFTER TECHNICAL MALFUNCTION ON SET OF NEW MOVIE 'QUIKSILVER'** _

_**NEW PHOTOS: WANDA MAXIMOFF RUSHES FROM RED CARPET TO HOSPITAL TO BE WITH BROTHER** _

_**IN MEMORIAM: PIETRO MAXIMOFF, 1992-2019** _

_**PRODUCTION ON ACTION THRILLER 'QUIKSILVER' SUSPENDED IN WAKE OF STAR'S DEATH** _

_**SEE THE TRAILER FOR 'IF MUSIC BE', PIETRO MAXIMOFF'S FINAL COMPLETED FILM** _

_**WHICH LEGACY ACTRESS WAS CAUGHT WITH HER PANTS DOWN OVER THE WEEKEND? SEE THE STEAMY PICTURES** _

_**ROGERS EXPRESSES CONCERN FOR EX-GIRLFRIEND WANDA MAXIMOFF: 'SHE'S NOT COPING WITH HER GRIEF'** _

_**IT'S DONE: WANDA MAXIMOFF ENDS THINGS WITH SPORTS STAR SAM WILSON** _

_**WANDA MAXIMOFF THROWN OUT OF BAR FOR FIGHTING, TAKING DRUGS IN THE BATHROOM** _

_**BARNES AND MAXIMOFF - FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY! ANOTHER SEEMINGLY GOOD GIRL GONE BAD** _

_**WANDA MAXIMOFF: DRINKING, DRUGGING, TOO MUCH SEX: CAN SHE COME BACK FROM THIS?** _

_**WANDA MAXIMOFF CRASHES STAGE AT EMMYS IN A TIRADE AGAINST ALEXANDER PIERCE FOR UNSAFE CONDITIONS ON 'QUIKSILVER' SET** _

_**FIRED! THADDEUS ROSS REPLACES 'VOLATILE' WANDA MAXIMOFF WITH NATASHA ROMANOFF IN NEW MOVIE** _

_**PIERCE GENEROUSLY SAYS HE WON'T SUE WANDA MAXIMOFF FOR PUBLICLY THREATENING HIM** _

_**FINALLY! WANDA MAXIMOFF CHECKS HERSELF INTO REHAB** _

_**THE TRAGEDY OF THE MAXIMOFF FAMILY: STARS WHO FELL TOO EARLY** _

* * *

She remembers nights in fragments of white. In flaring, flashing lights, in the sharp smell of vodka spilling down her skin, in queues at bathroom sinks and the rush, the flying feeling. The tug at the pit of her that pulled her to that end of night darkness, to another name she didn't remember and bare feet on glass and the big empty apartment, bloodstains on the doormat and missed calls in the morning. The therapist says she should work on remembering more of those nights. She doesn't want to. The person she became is already written indelibly into the fabric of her, immortalised in gleeful articles on gossip sites, her long, painful fall from grace.

Her key in the lock of her apartment feels wrong after the months in rehab. The white walls and paintings in soothing greens, blues, and creams, the picturesque pool for supervised exercise, the scheduled therapy appointments and the cook with the kind eyes, slipping an extra helping to her. She's softer than she was when she checked herself in, her angles curved by allowing other people to take care of her. The whites of her eyes are clearer, no longer veined and reddened by alcohol and drugs and sleepless nights against strangers.

Laura has obviously been in her apartment. Everything is clean, old favourable reviews framed and hung over her fireplace, fresh flowers in vases and a drawing that must have been Nathaniel pinned to her fridge with a cat-shaped magnet. It's the standard child's drawing of a house with yellow walls and red triangle roof, a stripe of green grass below, a few bright red flowers, a tree, a stripe of blue sky broken up by fat fluffy clouds and a smiling sun in the corner. _WELCOME HOME AUNT WANDA_ is written in careful curved letters, and for a moment tears sting Wanda's eyes. She missed his third birthday for rehab.

The therapist said she has to let herself cry more. The first few weeks in rehab, she cried over and over again. She cried in the car when Laura drove her there, another jagged sob ripping out of her for every time her manager whispered, "I'm so _proud_ of you." She cried in her private suite, the money Pietro left her thrown on piecing herself back together from his death, from everything in her life she'd never recovered from, her tears soaking through the soft silk pillowcase. Tissues followed in a trail behind her, soaked with salt, the evidence of six months spent in rewriting herself.

Dabbing at her eyes with the edge of a sleeve, she pulls her phone from her pocket and finds Laura in her contacts. There aren't many of them left after what she did, after the way she hit every stair on her fall from the dizzying heights. Sam's name still has a tiny heart emoji next to it, and the taste of iron fills her mouth when she bites her cheek too hard at the memory of him. At the thought of his tear-stained face, the gentle understanding in his voice, the tenderness she pushed away, the way she screamed at him. He tried to help, and she did nothing but push him away.

**To: Laura**

**I'm home**

**From: Laura**

**Hi honey, good to hear from you. Clint is creating in the kitchen tonight and the kids would love to see you. I can pick you up?**

Wanda bites at her nails, raggedy and short. When her other crutches were taken away, no bottle of vodka or line of coke or warm body, she turned her aching inwards, to bitten nails and raw fingertips. The therapist directed her away from anything more destructive, and teeth on nail is all she has. Until she turns to better coping mechanisms, pins that list the therapist gave her to the fridge, frames it on her nightstand, reads it until the rules are written on her mind in glowing, golden ink. She wants to get better. She _wants_.

**To: Laura**

**That would be nice. I can be ready in half an hour?**

Her first shower in her own apartment is the real homecoming. Back under her showerhead, the dials still set to her preferred scalding temperature. Laura replaced all her products, and the familiar citrus scent of her shampoo fills the mist of the room, the water pulsing in hot jets. She doesn't get out for a long time, hair dripping all over her floors. She still moves slowly, a shadow in her own home, feeling like an intruder. The last time she was here she'd sliced her hand open on broken glass, was clutching her bleeding palm and fuzzily trying to think of what to do next, mouth sour with last night's drink and head foggy. She barely felt the pain, and the silver scar that now lances her palm tingles at the memory.

Laura shouting, really shouting, for the first time since she'd started to crumble. Agreeing that she'd become a danger to herself, agreeing that she wasn't coping, agreeing to check into rehab. Watching her manager cancel everything she'd booked, everything she hadn't already lost, staring at the black thread bulging from her hand. Remembering the doctor telling her she was lucky not to have bled more. Resolving that this would not be how the Maximoff Hollywood story ended.

When the car pulls up outside the apartment block, she's dressed and ready to face the only people she's ever known to always stick by her. She found Pietro's clothes folded in the bottom drawer of her dresser, obviously more of Laura's doing, and she's wearing his red plaid shirt knotted at her waist, black skirt swinging around her hips, her tights laddered and her boots scuffed. Her hair is in a hasty ponytail, face bare of make-up, and she hopes that no one would glance at her twice. No one will see her as the girl who fell from grace, the broken bird who threw her dead family's legacy away in empty glasses and kisses from strangers.

Her stomach swoops at the first glimpse of Laura. This isn't Laura Barton, Hollywood manager, keeping her charges on the straight and narrow, elegant and whip-smart and kind only when it suits her. This is _Laura_ , soft smiles and crow's feet and loose hair. Squeezing Wanda's shoulder when she climbs into the car but saying nothing more, just driving them to her sun-drenched home. Lucky barking by the gate, Clint's wild flowerbeds, the mess of a family inside. It's such a far cry from her own sterile, empty apartment that Wanda tears up again, turning her face away from the light to hide it.

"Welcome back, kiddo!" Clint shouts, and he hugs her smelling of wood shavings and freshly-mowed grass, and she clings to him for a moment. This is the family she needs, the family she's been missing since the infamous plane crash of 2011 that took Hollywood legends Django and Marya Maximoff to their graves. The rhythms of the Barton household are familiar, Cooper crashing sulkily down the stairs when Laura calls to him to lay the table, Lila reluctantly called away from the archery target mounted on the biggest tree behind the house, Nathaniel slipping pieces of pasta to a panting Lucky sprawled at his feet.

She lets these moments fill her, warming her from the inside out. She pretends not to notice Clint reach for a bottle of wine before he snatches his hand back like he's been burned, pretends not to notice the narrow-eyed suspicious looks Cooper keeps levelling her with, pretends that it doesn't hurt that Lila edges her seat away like addiction is contagious. Lucky is still happy to see her, resting his big head in her lap and panting, and she idly scratches his ears, pale gold hairs sticking to her fingers. Clint is telling the table about his new DIY project while Laura rolls her eyes, and for a moment she remembers another family home, another tree in the back garden with a tire swing spinning from it, her mother's smile and her father's laugh and her brother's gentle teasing.

A tear squeezes out from the corner of her eye, and Laura lays a hand over hers. "We've got a present for you, Wanda," she says, and this seems to be a prompt. Clint pulls a plain envelope out from beneath the table and slides it to her. "We're so proud of you for going to rehab and you look so much better. But it's safer for you to not be in town for a while. You always say you want to see more of Europe, so-"

Plane tickets fall into Wanda's lap, LAX to Edinburgh, and Clint is promising her a loan of his guidebooks, telling her about all the hidden places she has to see, and she sees the summer stretching out in front of her in beachside sunlight and the relative anonymity of leaving the US. She thinks of crossing the continent back to Sokovia, to markets she remembers from childhood vacations, to the forests and mountains, and she clutches the ticket to her chest and whispers, " _Thank you_."

* * *

By the time she truly comes home, it's been over a year since Pietro died in a narrow hospital bed. She marked the anniversary of him dying back in Sokovia, bought herself a silver ring from the market to remember him by. She's been mostly off-grid for the summer, only really talking to the Bartons, ignoring the fans and the gossip mongers looking for her. Her phone is filled with photos of her summer alone, just for her.

Fall is falling over LA, though the temperature is still so soaring she's sweating through the leggings she wore on the plane. She's coming home from Europe with hair she cut into a sharp bob in Paris, a tattoo on her wrist she got in Amsterdam - _1973-2011, 1974-2011, 1992-2019_ \- and the memory of a summer to know herself. Music in pubs where she nursed soda all night, stark castles against misty skylines, sunshine on crowded beaches, bustling markets bursting at the seams with colour and culture. But LA is home, and stepping back into the heat and the rat race and the city full of people who all believe they'll make it puts a smile on her face.

She calls Laura in the Uber home, staring at the back of the driver's shaved head, and says, "Come to mine. I brought spices home, I'll cook." When she's home, trading her leggings and sweatshirt from the plane for a pretty orange and yellow sundress, she steps into her kitchen to cook for the first time in what must be more than a year. She assembles chicken paprikash as easy as breathing, remembering her mother teaching her how to make it, stealing tastes of the sauce from a wooden spoon, impatient.

Laura comes alone, and when they're sitting down Wanda pushes her food around her plate like an anxious child, chewing on the inside of her lip. "How was the summer?" Laura finally asks, and Wanda jumps on the conversational thread.

"Magical," she gushes, and wonders exactly how fake she sounds. She leaps for a suitcase and unearths the bag from beneath her clothes, opening it and tugging out presents for the Barton family. A bottle of Highland whiskey and a tin of shortbread for Clint, a delicate wool sweater for Laura, a book of European mythical creatures for Cooper, a whole box of collected seashells for Lila, a fluffy Loch Ness Monster for Nathaniel and London-branded dog treats for Lucky. With her back to her manager, she finally says, "Laura...I want to get back to work."

"Work?" Laura asks, single syllable stumbled over. "Wanda, are you sure you-"

"Acting is all I ever wanted to do," she says, clutching the precious memories of her first job to her chest. An extra in a TV show her father was leading, awestruck by the way her father melted away into a ruthless lawyer who would learn over the course of the show to see people as allies. "I want to do it for as long as I can."

"Wanda...I don't know, they turned on you so badly. I don't think you should go back. What if going back to work with the same people causes you to relapse?" The concern in Laura's voice doesn't feel patronising - it's genuine. She's managed Wanda since her and Pietro decided when they turned eighteen that acting really was their calling, and in those ten years her life has been turned upside down myriad times.

"So don't book me to be directed by Alexander Pierce or Thaddeus Ross, or co-star with Steve Rogers," Wanda says, hatred still burning in her chest at the memory of Pierce. That night at the Emmys is raw and jagged in her memory, pushing past security onto the stage to scream that Pierce as good as killed her brother himself with his negligence on set, the brutish security guard dragging her offstage and out of the building, spitting and screaming on the sidewalk with dust all over her crimson dress and the rubber tip broken off her heel from kicking the guard.

"Wanda, I know how much you love this job, but you're not even six months out of rehab-"

"I spent the entire summer alone in other countries, and I haven't touched a single drop of alcohol," she says. "I've tested myself. I've sat in pubs and I've been around other people who were drinking. I resisted it every time, Laura. I won't get myself in that state again."

"But what if you do slip?" Laura asks, and this isn't a manager speaking. This is her friend, something close to family. "I can't watch you lose yourself again like that, Wanda. Every morning I was terrified I'd have a missed call from the hospital."

" _Please_ , Laura," Wanda says. "I have to go back. I won't let my family's Hollywood legacy be the last survivor destroying herself and fading away into one YouTube video of her screaming at a respected director at the Emmys."

And Laura sighs heavily and says, "I'm not a miracle worker. But I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Wanda dodges around a group of tourists on the sidewalk, discernible by the cameras slung around their necks and the sunburn painting their faces, hands lifted to shade their eyes and admire the siren call of the Hollywood sign stretched across the skyline. Promising dreams come true, untold riches and endless admiration and floods of screaming fans. If only the sign had a terms and conditions, spelling out the dark side of the industry, telling those young hopefuls with dust on their heels and light in their eyes how quickly the city will turn on them if they dare to fuck up.

Laura's neighbourhood is perfectly detached from the centre of town and the streets paved in desperation, filled with family houses and quaint local businesses. The coffeeshop that she told Wanda to meet her in is a quiet place, always has been, and they've spent many an hour here talking about career moves, Laura's family, the maybe possible eventuality of Wanda having a family too. She'll come out to the neighbourhood just for this coffeeshop, tuck her skirt beneath her thighs and read and sip coffee and not think about her derelict career for a change.

At the quiet table in the corner where the owner always seats them with a wink that tells them she knows who they are but won't tell anyone they're here, Laura is sitting with one person Wanda recognises and one she doesn't. Laura and Helen Cho have known each other for years, and Wanda has made polite small talk with her at industry events, sparked speculation that she was looking for a new manager when sites choking for some exclusive nugget of gossip would crop Laura out of photos of the three of them.

The man is a stranger, and as Wanda untangles herself from her baggy checked blazer and orders an Earl Grey from the hovering waitress, she looks at him. He's handsome in the bright sunlight, blonde hair and blue eyes and the sort of cheekbones she knows a photographer would gush over. He sneaks a glance at her that she notices, and there's a sort of brightness to his eyes that she knows from years of men looking at her. Thinking about her roles, all those infamous moments she's seen GIFs of a thousand times, all those brief moments that she'd been told were awakening moments in the lives of millions of teenagers. They never see through the veneer of Hollywood to her.

"Shall we get to business?" Helen asks, and Wanda's eyes swivel between her and Laura, two hotshot Hollywood managers. Maybe this is the moment she's been waiting for, maybe Laura went to an old friend for help, maybe now they're going to figure out how to get her back the career she threw away. "Wanda, dear, how have you been?"

"Improving," she says shortly, and a smile spreads across Helen's face, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Don't I look better?"

"You look like you've eaten and slept in your own bed in the last twenty-four hours," she says, and the sting only hurts her for a moment before it fades. She knows what people think of her. She knows what she became. She's on a mission to prove that she can come back from that.

"Wanda, I don't believe you've ever met Victor Shade," Laura says, and she looks at the man again. Colour blooms at the tops of his cheekbones at her attention, and she silently scoffs to herself. Another one of the men she sees a thousand of in her Twitter mentions every day, men fawning over her for her looks and only her looks. "He's Helen's latest star."

"I'm afraid I haven't been keeping up with the new releases lately," she says, and he just nods, silent and shy. "What's catapulted you into Hollywood, Victor?"

"Just call me Vision, please," he says, his voice soft and smoothly accented. "I did a few romantic comedies, a few guest roles in TV shows. Then I get the coveted call from Disney - they want me for Milo in the live action Atlantis. That dropped at the start of the summer, and everything's just...snowballed."

"He's nominated for a Teen Choice Award in his first leading role," Helen says, seemingly fit to burst with pride. "I mean, it's not the Academy, but it's a start."

She looks at him, considering. He's certainly pretty, with the Prince Charming blue eyes and long eyelashes and air of innocence. Exactly the same sort of man she sees trotted out in places like the Teen Choice Awards for screaming girls. Pietro was one of those boys in his first role, the generic snarky charming love interest with a dark secret in a book adaptation, greeted by starry-eyed girls and instant runaway success. It wasn't like that for her.

"I'll make sure to watch that when I have a free evening," she says breezily. As if all her evenings aren't free these days, with no friends to call and no career to speak of. She's shed the trappings of her old life like a tree shedding leaves in the fall, shivering against the bleak cold of the winter of her life. She's not even thirty yet.

But her promise to watch his starring turn still has colour rising on Vision's neck, creeping up from beneath the sharp collar of his white shirt, and he smiles at her. A smile that goes to her chest, pierces somewhere in the locked up cage around her heart, and she shakes it off. "I've seen all of your movies, Ms. Maximoff," he says sweetly, giving her a look of such transparent admiration that she has to believe he's genuine. Perhaps not one of those men who praises her acting to her face and leers at the view when she walks away. "I was so sorry when I heard what happened to your brother."

"Thank you," she says. Quiet, broken, sad. She covers the tattoo on her wrist with one hand, that silent connection with the family she had to say goodbye to. Then she turns to their managers, Helen and Laura both watching them with considering, calculating eyes, and asks, "So why are we all meeting here?"

"It's as easy as this, Wanda," Helen says, leaning back in her chair, the picture of relaxed. "You are trying to rebuild your career. Victor's career is just taking off in a big way. You're already a famous name, be that for better or worse. He has a charming, squeaky clean, child-friendly image. The two of you can help each other out."

"So what, I give an interview about his talent and he tells everyone I'm a nice person really, pay no attention to the screaming wreck at the Emmys?" she asks, and Vision flinches. Maybe if she's always the first one to draw attention to the image she'll be remembered for, no one can use it against her more than they already have.

"Not exactly," Laura says, exchanging a long moment of tense eye contact with Helen. "See, Wanda, our idea is that you and Vision will pretend to date each other. Not for long, if you don't want to. Long enough for people to notice. Just through awards season."

"Fake date each other for mutual gain?" she asks, and Laura nods, seemingly relieved that she caught on immediately. "Do people in this town really do that?"

"More than you know," Laura says, and glances around them before she lowers her voice conspiratorially, eyes glinting when she says, "I have it on good authority that Natasha Romanoff faked dating Steve Rogers all those years ago."

"The good authority being?"

"Maria Hill," Helen puts in, and Wanda nods at the memory of Natasha's manager, who parties harder than most actors at awards show after parties. "She tells everyone that story. She finds it funny."

"Then why was Steve still complaining about her leaving him for Bruce Banner when _I_ dated him?" she asks, and Helen laughs. She turns to Vision, who has been suspiciously silent, and asks, "And I suppose you're on board with this plan?"

"I'd like to help you," he says, so damn genuine. She'd think he was pretending if he didn't seem so sweet, a breath of fresh air in a town full of sharks waiting for the scent of blood. "You're too talented to burn out like that."

"I thought you were looking for directors willing to partner with me," Wanda says, turning to Laura, and she shakes her head. "Nobody wants me?"

"No, people want you," she says. "But I want to be sure before I pursue an offer that they want you for the right reasons. Not just because Ross and Pierce blackened your name and they want to piss them off, not just because you'll bring controversy and attention to their movie, not just because they're salivating at the idea of trying to talk you out of the no nudity clause. I want to find a director who wants to work with _you_ , not the headlines that'll be written about them hiring you."

"Good luck with that," Wanda says, and though it's supposed to be flippant it comes out tinged with hurt and bitterness. She turns to Vision to hide it and says, "So would you prefer to be called babe or sweetheart?"

He flushes, his eyes darting everywhere but meeting hers. "I, um...either is fine," he says, quiet and mumbling.

"So you're doing this?" Laura asks, expression all guarded caution.

"I can't possibly screw up my career any worse than I already have."

* * *

She's faking a relationship for fame. The more she thinks it, the more ordinary it seems, just another strange twist in the story of her career, another plot element thrown too late into the movie. She's sitting in coffeeshops with the blonde-haired blue-eyed leading man and pretending not to notice the man with his camera lurking on the street corner. She opens Twitter that night and sees the photographs being passed around, sees the softness in Vision's face and her smile, and quietly thinks that she deserves to win an award for pretending so easily.

Her relationships have always been public, for better or worse. Her and Pietro were born into fame, she still has the interview spread from when they were born, the headlines proclaiming that Django and Marya Maximoff must have the perfect charmed life now, one son and one daughter and their success and money. There's a photograph of them, the perfect family unit, her and Pietro swaddled in matching blankets and their parents smiling, eyes bright with love. She's dated in the public eye since a short dalliance when she was seventeen that ended in a phone call and a long night crying into her pillow.

Pretending to be with Vision is different. She can't make it feel like the before relationships, so many of them weren't good. The only relationship where she looks back at the pictures and feels like she still sees happiness gilding her smile is Sam, and thinking of him stings. She hasn't spoken to him since she left rehab. She hasn't spoken to anyone from before, preferring to try to make an after. After is with Vision, photographs in gossip pages of them walking through the park hand in hand in golden evening light, fall cooling the air. After is seeing him answer fan questions on Twitter with cryptic allusions to having a girlfriend, to watching people question whether or not she's a good fit for him, all of her bad past being dragged up into the light of day. When she sees that, she logs off and goes to bed, curled around herself and silent.

Vision is a surprise breath of fresh air to the life she expected to have after rehab. He's sweet, sweeter than most people she's met in her life under the spotlight. He doesn't make her feel like she has to perform for him, though she's playing at being his girlfriend. On their dates, meant to draw the paparazzi to them and spark speculation about their relationship, he talks to her like she's a person, not just the famous actress who could've had everything but threw it away in wine glasses and white powder. They don't talk much about their careers, as _Atlantis_ is released on DVD and his star climbs higher, propelled on by the incredible power of teenagers who find him handsome and charming. He asks her about her life in LA, the childhood she had here, her parents and her brother. She talks, and he listens, and it feels quiet and content for brief shining moments.

Soon the silent, still paparazzi photographs aren't enough, and they're making their debut in front of professional cameras as a couple. She still hasn't booked any new jobs, Laura assuring her that she's looking for the right thing, and she hasn't been to an event since she left rehab. Laura and Helen put their heads together and they're going to the Stark Industries Christmas Gala, the kind Wanda always attended before with the dubious honour of being friends with Tony's friends. Dragged into his circle for the evening, rolling eyes with Natasha while he and Bruce talked quickfire science back and forth, Sam dragging her onto the dancefloor and leaning her head into his shoulder and the amber scent of his cologne.

Memories are shadowing her, walking two steps behind her, the before times, and she's delighted when Darcy turns up at her door to do her hair and make-up, distracting her. She's the same as she ever was, eager for gossip, hair dragged up in a messy ponytail with a beanie precariously balanced on top of it all, and she sits Wanda down and immediately asks, "So, tell me about the new boyfriend? How'd you meet?"

"You signed the NDA, right?" she asks, and Darcy rolls her eyes and nods, emptying her make-up bag onto a counter. "Our managers know each other."

"Ugh, boring," she says, thoughtfully perusing her selection of eyeshadow palettes. "When you tell the reporters, make it a meet-cute. Like he paid for your coffee because you forgot your purse. Or like you found his cat wandering the streets. The fans will lap that shit up."

"From what I've seen on Twitter, his fans will just be upset that he's now taken and they have to give up their fantasy of meeting him on a red carpet and getting to date him," she says, and Darcy snorts unattractively. "We're not going to tell anyone much. It's still...new."

"Having watched a lot of his interviews, and that goddamn adorable speech when he won the Teen Choice Award, I think he's one of the better ones you've dated," Darcy says, and Wanda smiles slightly, tight and nervous. People say that without knowing it's fake, and she doesn't want to imagine what the people who've been a part of her life say about her previous boyfriends behind her back. Only Pietro ever confronted her about dating men who weren't good for her, and when he was gone she broke the heart of the only boyfriend he ever liked. "Why didn't you go to the TCAs with him?"

"Laura didn't want me having to go in front of so many cameras and reporters when I haven't been out there in almost a year," she says, and Darcy nods understandingly, her mouth a thin line of resignation. "Tony has so much security at his events that no reporters will get through. Hopefully, the only photographs of me will be the professionals and not the paparazzi who want to debate while I'll get my boobs out on camera again."

"I'm still giving you a smokey eye," Darcy says stubbornly, and Wanda laughs and leans back in her chair to let her work her magic.

By the time the car pulls up outside, Darcy has her transformed back into who she used to be. Her hair flutters straight and glossy around her face, necklace sparkling above her deep blue dress. A long slit shows off almost the entirety of her leg when she climbs into the car, and she looks up to find Vision smiling at her. The silk tie lying against his chest matches the exact shade of her dress, and he leans across the seat to kiss her cheek. "You look beautiful," he breathes, like they have to pretend here. Like it isn't all for the benefit of the cameras when he's soft with her like this.

"You don't look so bad yourself," she says, and he flashes, ducking his head in pleased embarrassment. "So you feel ready for this? Your first Stark Industries gala?"

"I hear more people try to angle for an invitation to this than they do for invites to the Oscars," he says, and she laughs, leaning against him. The scent of her newly-sprayed perfume is cloying to her own nose, and she wonders if he thinks that, if he'll move away. But he puts an arm around her and softly says, "You don't have to be so nervous. I'm here."

"I haven't been in front of cameras in a year," she says, her voice low and secret, toying with the soft material of her skirt. "The last time, I...I was drunk, and I couldn't even string a sentence together, and Hollywood was _laughing_ at me-"

"Hey," he whispers, his fingers twining through hers. "You are stronger than anyone who used you as a punching bag for their gossip sites. You were strong enough to ask for the help you needed."

"Only when it was already too late for my career-"

"You're going to find something," he promises, and with the warmth that dances in his eyes she almost wants to believe him. "Helen is looking too. There are lots of new directors coming up who would love to work with you. We just have to weed out the ones who are doing for the wrong reasons."

"I think at this point no one would hire me for the right reasons," she says sadly. "I'm a headline grabber, that's all. A director would take me on so everyone can write for hours about they hired the disgraced daughter of a golden Hollywood family, whether the pressures of working publicly again will make me relapse, if this will be the director who gets me to take my clothes off like Strucker did the second I turned eighteen-"

"You are worth so much more than your past, Wanda," he says softly, and in the gloom of the car his face is bright and genuine, and she has to look away. He's brighter than a spotlight, and he could break her worse than any broken dream could.

The red carpet spills up to the entrance of the Gala as the car pulls up to a clamour of noise, and she shrinks back in the seat for a moment, nerves gripping her. "I can't do this," she breathes, and Vision is staring at her with so much compassion in his gaze across the seat. "It's a waste of a beautiful dress, but we should just leave-"

"They just want a show, Wanda," he says. "Let's give them one." And he holds out a hand to help her out of the car. And, against all survival instinct, she takes it and lets the electricity of the touch between them spur her out of the car.

Lights burst like stars, the gathered photographers and reporters clamouring her name. She remembers this sight a thousand times before, with Steve golden at her side, then with Sam laughing and waving to paparazzi. She remembers it when she was never sober for longer than a few minutes, swimming in the haze of drink and drugs, cushioning herself against the knives of the world. Sitting amongst a room of her peers all whispering behind her back, calling her a trainwreck, washed up before thirty, a slut who was only famous for taking her clothes off and dating the right men.

Then Vision's hand curls around her waist, and the flashbacks fade. She leans into him, the clean fresh smell of him, and he kisses the top of her head, breathing, "Just concentrate on one foot in front of the other," into her hair. "I'll do the rest."

She doesn't deserve kindness like him. His warm hand wrapped around her, guiding her down the red carpet, ignoring the questions shouted at him. He only pauses for one reporter, a tiny woman who eagerly asks, "How did you two meet?"

"Our managers know each other," he answers, and Wanda schools her face into a smile, shaking her head at him.

"Sweetheart, that's the boring version of our story," she says, laughing, and he turns to her with shining eyes that make her tremble. "We're supposed to say you paid for my coffee one morning or I found your lost dog."

"Since I don't have a dog, that would be an obvious lie," he says, and she laughs. "We don't need a movie meet-cute to be dating now, darling."

The softness of the pet name in his voice has her trembling, and she's silent for the rest of the length of the red carpet, until they're stepping over the threshold and into the blues and silvers of a winter wonderland. Music fills the air, servers moving around the room bearing silver trays of appetisers and champagne, and her hands shake thinking of the times she's spent at parties like these. Glass of champagne in hand, the right man for the moment at her side, young and alive with the world at her feet. Not the broken thing she is now.

"Wanda, darling!" Tony's shout rolls across the room, and he's hugging her, kissing her cheek and brushing hair out of her face when he falls away. "You look stunning, as usual. So nice to have you back."

"I'm sorry I missed your progeny finally being born, Stark," she says, and he grins, waving an airy hand through the air.

"You can miss anything in the same of self-improvement, Maximoff," he says, and turns with a gleam in his eye to Vision. "The new piece, I presume?"

"Tony, this is Victor Shade, my boyfriend," she says, and Tony grins, extending a hand to shake. "Vision, this is Tony. The bane of my life since my co-star in the film that almost got me an Oscar nomination started seeing his best friend."

"You adore me," Tony says, and she shakes her head. This almost feels like her old days, being teased by an old friend, looking at the room full of people. But Pietro isn't here with the heiress of the week on his arm. She isn't laughing with Natasha, dancing with Sam. Pietro is gone, and her relationships with Natasha and Sam are irretrievably wrecked. It's all her own fault.

"Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Stark," Vision says, and Tony beams.

"Any friend of Wanda's is a friend of mine," he says, and then gives her a meaningful look. "And any enemy gets their request for an invitation thrown in the trash. No matter how big a Hollywood name they are."

"Thank you," she says softly, and he ruffles her hair.

"Those of us recovering from using shitty coping mechanisms to deal with grief have to have each other's backs," he says, and releases her like a butterfly into the party.

Though Tony might have deigned not to invite Alexander Pierce or Thaddes Ross, she hurt too many people on her fall from grace for him to avoid all of them. And she runs across Natasha almost immediately, her eyes flickering sadly over the woman she once considered her best friend in the rat race of Hollywood. She's wearing gold, perfectly moulded to her body, and Bruce is at her side, and Wanda's eyes drift to their hands, the matching gold bands gracing their third fingers. "I heard you got married over the summer," she says, her mouth dry. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," Natasha says stiffly, and looks at Vision. "I heard you had a new boyfriend. This is him?"

"Victor Shade," Vision says, and Natasha eyes him.

"Disney's new golden boy," she observes, and he nods, colour tinting his cheekbones. "Nice to meet you. Nice to see you with someone, Wanda."

"Nat-"

"Let's talk," she says, and her fingers are around Wanda's wrist, pulling her away from the bustle of the party. They used to gossip in the corridors away from the crowds, and now Natasha is turning to her with steely eyes and a set mouth. "You're back now?"

"I'm back," she says unsteadily. "I...I went to rehab. After everything."

"I know," Natasha says. "You stopped picking up my calls or answering my texts, but I still followed the news about you. I...I'm so sorry."

"For what?" she asks. "I wouldn't let anyone help. I broke up with Sam for trying to."

"I took your part," Natasha says, regret spun silken through her words. "I shouldn't have done it. But Ross asked, and I knew I was getting married and needed the money, and I was so angry that you wouldn't let anyone get through to you, I just-"

"It's okay," Wanda says softly. She knows what she became, how she pushed away everyone that cared about her. She remembers that in the shades of heartbreak that danced across Sam's dark eyes when she yelled at him to leave her alone, the hot gasp of a stranger's breath against her neck in a bar bathroom, the self-destructive way she relived every second of working with Strucker, reading her Twitter mentions and seeing the GIFs people sent her over and over again. "I was in an... _awful_ place, and-"

"I should have tried harder to reach out," Natasha insists. "I knew how broken you were. And we all left you after the funeral, I know we did. It was too late to turn you back by the time the paparazzi caught you."

"It's my own fault for letting it get out of hand so quickly-"

"Your brother died because of some slick director's negligence, Wanda, no one _blames_ you," Natasha snaps, and Wanda shrinks. "It...the more I think about it, the more it makes me angry. Everyone watched you self-destruct and they laughed instead of trying to help. You lost the last member of your family and they just took your career away instead of supporting you."

"I'm used to that," she says, and there are tears stinging her eyes at the look on Natasha's face. This is the woman she became friends with, the woman who persuaded her to stop working with Strucker, the woman who helped her go to Laura and write the no-nudity clause into her contract. "They've always hated me. I remember the way they wrote about me when I worked for Strucker-"

"You were a child, and there were grown men counting down until you were eighteen," Natasha snaps, and she winces. "I remember that trailer."

"Everyone does," Wanda says thinly. "I can't escape that. When I met Vision, all I could think about was how he's already seen me naked-"

"Strucker was a sleaze, we all know that," Natasha says, and Wanda shivers. "I'm trying to apologise for not trying harder to be there for you. I let you push me away, and I shouldn't have. And Sam agrees."

"You still talk to him?" she asks. She hasn't tried to contact Sam yet, though she's opened their old message thread a few times, ghosting her fingers over the last messages he sent her. _I woke up the headlines that you're checking into rehab. I'm so proud of you. I'm sorry I couldn't be the guy you've needed. I hope you find him_.

"We've bonded," she says with a smile. "He has a boyfriend now, actually. A barista, if you can believe it. Dating outside of the celebrity bubble for once."

"That's...good," Wanda says softly. She expects it to sting when the illusion she had that maybe she might rekindle things with Sam is shattered. But it doesn't. Maybe things would never have been the same between them. Maybe she caused too much hurt and it burned away all the happiness in the road behind them.

"Your new boyfriend seems nice," Natasha says, and she nods vaguely. "I met him at a few events over the summer, with all those Disney execs steering him around to show him off. He's sweet." She eyes Wanda probingly and says, "He's good for you."

"Nat-"

"He looks at you like you're everything he wants, just as you are," she says, and Wanda looks away. She's trying not to think about the shine in Vision's eyes, how lovely he is, how he smiles at her. He's just a good actor, that's all. "I know you, Wanda. I know how badly you don't want to be seen as just the sexy Sokovian, or the tragic backstory, or the girl who lost her brother and recovered from addiction. And I don't think he sees any of that when he looks at you."

"It's new," she insists, and Natasha arches an eyebrow at him. "I'm not about to rush into something new. It's not good for me."

"Regardless, Wanda, I've watched you date the wrong guy before," she says. "Even Sam saw you as just the hot girl at first. But I think...I really think Vision could be it."

"Is this what happens when your friends get married?" she asks, and Natasha grins, smugly ghosting her fingertips over her engagement and wedding rings. "They start thinking everyone around them has met the one, and they need to tell them?"

"Not everyone, hon," Natasha says, and smiles. "Just you. You're the friend I have that most deserves to finally be at peace."

And when they drift back to the ballroom, and Vision's hand finds the small of her back to lead her into a dance, she tips her forehead against his shoulder and sighs. Wraps her heart tighter in barbed wire to keep him away.

It's all fake. It's all acted. The brightness of his eyes when he looks at her can't drown her if she doesn't let it.

But when he smiles at her, she leans up and kisses him for the benefits of the photographers. And when the headlines about _DISGRACED ACTRESS WANDA MAXIMOFF AND NEW BEAU VICTOR SHADE STEP OUT TOGETHER AT STARK INDUSTRIES GALA_ splash across her Twitter feed the next morning, she sips her coffee in the cold on her balcony and imagines his golden presence near her every night.

* * *

Somehow, Laura works her magic and finds Wanda a role. It's a small supporting part in Phil Coulson's new film, but it gets her back in front of a camera. It lets her melt away into someone else's life, someone else's problems, and has headlines written about her that finally pertain to her career and not her relationship. When she leaves the set, Vision is waiting for her, his smile so soft, and he wraps his arms around her and breathes, "I'm so proud of you," in her ear.

Christmas passes with him and some of his friends who also have no families to go to. He's just moved into a new apartment, decorated in warm colours and pops of yellow, and she drinks soda while everyone else drinks wine, curled up to him on the couch as the Christmas lights flicker and bathe him in gold and green. It feels real when his arm curls around her and he kisses her cheek, and she pulls away from him abruptly.

It wasn't supposed to end up in her falling for him. She's been burned too many times, left too much pain in her wake, but something about his smile pulls her in. He's so sweet, so genuine, and as awards season begins he's at her side at all the industry parties. When Steve Rogers approaches her with concern painted so thickly across his face and a gentle, "How _are_ you, Wanda?" Vision's arm tightens around her and gives her the strength to get through the conversation.

Vision is soon cast in another movie, something dark and gritty, something everyone immediately pinpoints as a potential Oscar nomination. And she's proud of him, she is. He's good and graceful and genuine, and he deserves to be a star. But it's hard to watch him soar while she flickers out, to sit at his side in another ride to another party and read articles about how his association with her might pull him down.

He takes the phone gently from her hand and sternly says, "Don't listen to a word they say. I don't care if being associated with you affects my image. You are not...not family friendly, or whatever they're saying this week."

"My most famous role is the one where I had a full-frontal sex scene," she says, and he blushes. Though it's rare, she does still catch him staring at her like other people do, reminding her he knows what's under her clothes. Or what was under there when she was eighteen. She's almost twenty-nine now.

"That was the film that made me want to study acting," he says softly, and she just blinks. "You were exquisite in that role, Wanda. It's a crime that you weren't even nominated for an Oscar."

"I regret taking my clothes off for it," she says softly. "I let Strucker convince me it would make me stand out. My mother so famously never did nude scenes, and I thought...I wanted to be different. I didn't want everyone to see me as just the second coming of Marya Maximoff. But I...the way people _talked_ about me, I-"

"It was disgusting," he says, and her mouth snaps shut, her lip quivering. "You never deserved any of this, Wanda. You were dealt a bad hand, but I truly believe you can come back. You were born to be a performer."

"The reviews don't seem to think that," she says. "And now, I...everything is so associated with Pietro. Losing him."

"Maybe you should work behind the camera instead," Vision says softly. "Write something. Produce something, maybe. Tell a story you want to tell instead of dancing to someone else's tune."

Then the car pulls up to the party, and she's shaking out her black dress and smiling for the cameras when he puts an arm around her. But she's still thinking about what he said as the night drifts on, music playing and loud voices and a thousand people trying to set up their next big collaboration. She's thinking about it when she spins and collides with Sam Wilson, and her ex-boyfriend steadies her and smiles. "I thought I might run into you," he says, and the way he's smiling slices through her. He's everything she regrets, the relic of another time in her life, the heart she broke.

"Sam, I'm sorry-"

"Hey, come on now," he says, and squeezes her shoulder. "All's well that ends well, right? We broke up. I wasn't what you needed, and that's okay."

"I pushed you away-"

"Right into the love of my life's arms, so thank you for that," he says, and she follows his gaze to a man sitting alone at a table, gazing in wonder at the people in their finery dancing around him. "I'm actually considering asking Joshua to marry me."

"That's...that's great, Sam," she says softly. "I'm happy for you."

"And your boyfriend seems utterly besotted with you," he says, and she flushes, glancing at Vision. He's dancing with Helen, and she hates the way she softens when she looks at him. She's tried to beat back these feelings like wild flames, but they won't flicker out. "He looks at you like you're the only person in the room."

"We haven't been together that long-"

"I like how you smile when you're with him," Sam says, his voice so gentle. "I want the best for you, Wanda. I think he could be it."

"That's what Natasha says," Wanda says, and Sam laughs.

"She's smart, so she must be right," he says, and he moves to kiss Wanda's cheek. "Take care of yourself, okay? Maybe you two could come on a double date with us sometime. Really throw the paps for a loop."

She laughs, and he walks away, and she feels a little lighter. Maybe things are going to be good. Maybe the way Vision smiles at her across the room is worth the fear. Maybe she could move to a new phase of her career and still make her family proud. Maybe the end has not found her.

But the thing about attending industry parties instead of Tony's parties is that the guest list has not been curated to remove anyone she doesn't want to see. And she's standing at the bar, shifting on her painful heels, when she hears a silken voice next to her. "Ms. Maximoff. How nice to see you in our world again."

"Alexander," she murmurs, and Pierce smirks at her while she tries somewhat frantically to get the bartender's attention. "What do you want? You said you'd never work with me again."

"Just to let you know I've spoken with Phil Coulson," he says, and tucks a hand over the small of her back. And she freezes, remembering Strucker smiling at her across a dimly-lit room, the purring persuasion as he coaxed her to unbutton her shirt, all the promises that it would make her famous. "I've told him some of your more...controversial actions."

"The whole world knows I threatened to sue you," she snaps, and he laughs, leaning closer to her. For all the world, it looks as if they're just having the type of conversation so often seen between directors and hopeful actresses at parties like these.

"The statute of limitations on that particular lawsuit runs out in three months, Ms. Maximoff," he says. "And you don't have the best track record with trying to sue directors, do you? No one believed you about Wolfgang. Why would they support you now?"

"Everyone saw Pietro die on your set," she hisses.

"And it was a terrible accident, and I was devastated to lose such a bright star," Pierce murmurs. "But it was not my fault. You can prove nothing."

"I can prove you're trying to sabotage my career," she says darkly, and he just smiles.

"Lucky for you, you have a well-respected manager, and Phil doesn't want to damage his relationship with Laura and her family," he says. "But rest assured, Ms. Maximoff. I will not hesitate to ruin you."

Then he walks away, and the bartender finally gets to her and smiles. "A vodka lime soda and a Coke, please," she says vaguely. And she's watching Pierce's retreating back, still feeling the heavy heat of his hand on her back, and says, "Actually, make that two vodka lime sodas. No, three."

"Whatever you say, ma'am," the bartender says, clearly exhausted and disgruntled with the night. And when the glass is pressed into her hand, she downs it without thinking.

The sting of the vodka at the back of her throat hurts for a moment. But it floods her with warmth, with false courage, and she takes another one. Then another, and by the time she returns to Vision's arms she's unsteady on her feet, everything swimming in a rainbow around her, and she stumbles over her feet when he holds out an arm for her to curl herself into.

His eyes narrow, and he asks, "Are you alright?"

"Perfectly," she says, but her voice is high-pitched with trying not to cry, and he cups a hand to her cheek, turning her face to his. "What?"

"I can smell the vodka on you," he says, and her eyes prickle with tears. She's disappointed him, like she's disappointed everyone, betrayed him and the legacy of her parents by relapsing. She should be stronger than this, should've been strong enough to not become an addict in the first place, should be able to dance and drink and not take it too far.

"I'm fine," she says, and her voice wobbles, and the kindness in his eyes is too much. She bursts into tears, so loud heads around them whip to look at her, and Vision is pulling her out of the room, away from it all.

She clings to him like a child, his blazer over her shoulders, the softness of his voice on the phone to their driver. He brings her a bottle of water, and when her stomach turns he holds her hair as she vomits onto the pavement, crying at the burn at the back of her throat. "I _failed_ ," she sobs, and he smooths her hair and kisses her forehead, offering her gum.

"I saw Pierce talking to you," he says, and she shakes her head. "Wanda, please, if he's threatening you we have to do something. You can still sue him for wrongful death-"

" _Don't_ ," she moans. She buries herself in him, shaking, the initial euphoria of the vodka making her forget gone now. Now she's terrified of the world spinning, terrified of what someone might do when she's lost like this, and he's protecting her.

He helps her over the threshold of her apartment, and asks gentle permission before he unzips her dress. "You shouldn't have to deal with me," she sobs, and he just holds out her pyjamas and a packet of make-up wipes.

"I want to," he says softly, his eyes bright in the gloom. "I don't want you to be alone, Wanda."

"You can't say that," she whispers, and he's steering her into her bedroom. She's falling into her mattress, and still staring at him. He's so beautiful, tucking the blankets around her, and she pulls him down and kisses him, fitting her lips over his. " _Vision_ -"

"You're drunk, Wanda, you're upset, and you're not thinking," he insists, and moves out of her reach. "I shouldn't-"

"You're too good for me," she whispers, and it comes out jumping in a sob. "Of course you're pulling away. I'm a trainwreck, and I'm always going to be a trainwreck, and you can still have everything I threw away. I'm just the selfish little slut who leaves broken hearts behind her, and of course I fell in love with you. I just want something I can break."

She doesn't know how long she rambles before the blissful oblivion of sleep finds her. But when she wakes it's to dark smears of eyeliner on her pillow and the smell of bacon drifting in from the kitchen. And she changes into jeans and a jumper against the cold of her apartment, and pads in bare feet to find Vision standing at her stove, turning rashers of bacon, still dressed in his suit.

"Hi," she breathes, and he turns to her with concern already blooming across his face.

"How are you feeling?" he asks softly. He gestures vaguely at the pan with his tongs and says, "I'm making breakfast. I didn't think you should be alone."

"Thank you," she says softly, and she wants to move towards him so badly. She wants his arms around her, his lips on hers, but she can't do it. She can't bring herself to move when she's so afraid, when he pushed her away after her drunken heart poured itself out in his hands. "Thank you for rescuing me last night."

"I couldn't leave you like that," he says softly, and his eyes return to the pan of bacon, and colour limns the lines of his cheekbones. "Wanda, I...the things you said last night, I can forget all about them. You were drunk and vulnerable and you didn't know what you were saying-"

"Yes, I did." The words hang heavy in the air between them, and she watches the motion of his throat when he gulps.

"I can forget what you said if you didn't mean it," he says. "But...if you did, I...you should know the whole story. So you can decide which ending you want."

"Vizh-"

"I'm in love with you," he says, and tears spring to her eyes, and she buries her head in her hands. "I know this was supposed to be fake, but I love you. I love how brave you are, how strong, and how you don't think you're any of those things. I love your talent, your fire, how determined you are to heal the hurt you caused and make your family proud. I love how beautiful you are, your freckles and your eyes and your hands. I love you, and if you'll have me then I want to earn you. I want to deserve a place at your side."

"Vision, _I'm_ the one who doesn't deserve _you_ ," she whispers. "I'm the fuck-up, I'm the recovering alcohol and drug addict, I'm-"

"You're Wanda Maximoff," he breathes, and the tongs are dropped, and he's taking her hands in his, raising her tear-streaked face to find her eyes. "I love you."

"I love you too," she gasps, and leans up to kiss him. The bacon burns in the pan behind them as his hands slide into her hair and she pushes him back against her kitchen island, and she loses herself in him.

When she comes back up for air, he's smiling bright enough to raise her to a high she's never felt before.

* * *

_It's tonight! The 2022 Academy Awards have been hotly anticipated after the spate of Hollywood drama within the last year. Alexander Pierce left movies in disgrace after settling a wrongful death lawsuit for Pietro Maximoff's 2019 death on the set of action-thrilled Quiksilver out of court, and Wanda Maximoff has shown why she wanted to come back. While her boyfriend, Victor Shade, is nominated for Best Supporting Actor for his role in Hank Pym's melancholy_ _**Death In The Secret** _ _, Maximoff herself is nominated for Best Original Screenplay for her gorgeous autobiographical piece_ _**Broken Bird** _ _. Her film, produced by her long-time friend Tony Stark, tells the story of Maximoff's first years in Hollywood, her string of terrible relationships, and opens up more about her controversial relationship with director Wolfgang von Strucker, with Maximoff's stand-in character played delicately and perfectly by newcomer Kate Bishop. A fiery feminist statement and an exploration of grief and growth, it's the favourite to win tonight._

Photographers go wild when she steps out of the car. Darcy was beaming when she left the studio, saying, "Make sure you tell everyone who styled you when you finally got that Oscar before thirty!" Her white dress is spilling down around her, the perfect contrast to her red hair, long again now and floating over her shoulders. Vision is wearing white too, smiling at her, and he tucks an arm around her for the cameras.

Nerves start to jangle in her chest when they get inside. But soon she finds Natasha, Bruce at her side, her deep purple dress cupping over her baby bump, and she smiles at her friend. "You look beautiful," she says, and Natasha smiles ruefully.

"I can't help thinking you've stolen my look," she says, and Wanda laughs. "We can't have two Eastern European redheads working closely together."

"You're Russian and I'm Sokovian," she points out, and Natasha scoffs.

"As if these Americans know the difference," she says.

"I'm afraid she's only insulting there, Bruce," Vision says, and Wanda is leaning into the warm length of him, his comforting golden presence. "I'm English."

"Please, you're no better," Natasha says, and she winks at Wanda as she walks away, one hand tucked over her bump for the benefit of reporters who will write about her maternity gown and the fast-approaching arrival of her first child tomorrow.

The ceremony drags on and on, and Wanda has had so many sodas the caffeine is making her tremble, and Vision is squeezing her hand when the host flashes his white teeth at the cameras and announces the nominees for Best Original Screenplay. Her heart leaps at the cheer that goes up when he says, "Wanda Maximoff for _Broken Bird_ ," and Vision kisses her cheek and holds her hand tighter.

"And the winner is...Wanda Maximoff for _Broken Bird_!"

The room erupts, and her heart skips a long moment before it starts to pound, and Vision is turning her face to his and kissing her shocked, slack lips. "You did it," he whispers, and she stumbles out of her seat and onto the stage, taking the statue in her hands and moving towards the podium.

"Wow, I...thank you, Academy," she breathes. "I...I have to thank the friends who joined me in making this movie a reality. Natasha, thank you for the advice. Laura, thank you for supporting me pivoting to behind the camera. Tony, thank you for paying for everything." Laughter bubbles through the room, and she starts to find her feet, the reality sinking in that she just _won_ an _Oscar_. "Thank you to the Barton family for all your support, no matter who I was. Thank you to Kate Bishop for performing my words so perfectly. Thank you to everyone who was excited when I announced this project. Thank you to my family for watching over me and giving me a life in Hollywood. I want to dedicate this win to them, for starting me out." She blinks and smirks as she adds, "Thank you to all the people who hurt me and wrote articles about how I'd never amount to anything. I just won an Oscar for the film I wrote about you."

She's getting subtle gestures to wrap up her speech, and she bursts out with, "And thank you so much to my boyfriend. He was the first to suggest I start working behind the camera, so thank you, sweetheart. Thank you for supporting me through everything I had to dig back through to write this script. Thank you for holding me when I cried at night and holding my hand through everything. Loving you has made me better, and I will always be grateful."

She can see him in the crowd, his eyes sparkling with tears, and a gasp fills the room when she says, "You know, I woke up in the middle of the night last night, and I rolled over and woke him up. He didn't kick me out of bed, he's just sweet like that. And I asked him if he'd marry me if I won. And he kissed me and said he'd marry me whether I was the toast of town or losing everything." She turns to the host, his smile, and asks, "Am I allowed to ask my boyfriend up on stage?"

He nods, grinning, and the room waits with baited breath as Vision mounts the stairs onto the stage, hope written all over that handsome face. She sets her Oscar statuette on the podium, and slides the ring out of the pocket of her sleek dress, and Vision's hand flies to his mouth, his eyes bright. "I love you so much," she whispers. "You saved me from myself. And I want a lifetime to pay you back for everything you've done for me. Will you marry me?"

" _Yes_ ," he gasps, and the room screams in one long cheer. She slides the ring onto his hand, shaking, and he helps her to her feet to kiss him, her arms around him, the ridge of his ring digging into her hips, and the wetness of their tears mingling on their flushed, happy faces.

**wandamaximoff: The Academy said yes...and so did he ❤️**

**[natasharomanoff, samtwilson, clintbarton, helenchomanagement and 996, 547 others like this]**


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